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Updated: June 24, 2025
But Susan had finished with the subject and branched off to another cheerful one. "I remember little Tod MacAllister over-harbour killed himself that very way, eating up a whole box of fruitatives because he thought they were candy. It was a very sad affair. He was," said Susan earnestly, "the very cutest little corpse I ever laid my eyes on.
She whirled round towards the low fence bordering the highway. Its innocent appearance, all draped in woodbine and fringed with alder and raspberry bushes, did not deceive her in the least. "You're a nasty, mean, mean boy, Charles Stuart MacAllister!" she cried indignantly to the thickest clump of alders. She dropped her dress and stepped to the grassy side of the road, filled with rage.
And so the days of anxious waiting for the great visit sped past; and in the interval Elizabeth might have fallen hopelessly into idle habits had it not been for the one person who, quietly and unnoticed, exercised the strongest influence over her life. To the little girl's surprise, Mother MacAllister was the one person who held out no hopes concerning Mrs. Jarvis.
Was his money better than that of the people of this town, who for years have been paying you for duties that you have never honestly performed?" At the mention of Anderson, Squire Sanders' face turned from red to a deadly ashen. "Look out," cautioned Ralph aside to the president, "he is old you know, and might drop at any moment." "Not a bit of it," went on Mr. MacAllister.
Johnstone spat at great length into the stove damper, to cover his embarrassment. "Hut tut, sic like havers!" was all he said, and motioned with his thumb over his shoulder towards his next-door neighbor. Mr. MacAllister, just emerged from the depths of the Long Way, looked at her in a dazed fashion.
But I believe the hussy was just stubborn. I felt sorry to dismiss her, as it was Mr. MacAllister who asked me to give her a trial. Don't say anything to him about it, please, Miss Gordon. I hate to tell him I had to send her away." Miss Gordon laughed. "Has Mr. MacAllister turned into an intelligence office? Or is he squire of domestic dames?" She retreated up the stairs as she spoke.
The proprietor of The Boston Events turned about, and began to look over the arrangements of the interior; the other ladies went with him, conversing, in low tones. "These must be the places where the men sleep," they said, gazing at the bunks. "We must get Kinney to explain things to us," said Mr. Willett a little restlessly. Mrs. Macallister jumped briskly to her feet. "Oh, yes, do, Mr.
Anderson, and how he came to give himself to the work he was at, partly for its own sake, partly in the hope of finding his father. He told him his only clue to finding him; and that he had called on Mrs. Macallister twice every week for two years, but had heard nothing of him. De Fleuri listened with what rose to great interest before the story was finished.
There was nothing more to be done until Charles Stuart and Long Pete Fowler came in with the milk. So Mother MacAllister sat down in the old rocker by the sun-flooded window with her knitting, and Elizabeth sat on an old milking-stool at her feet.
Macallister, who had that freedom in alluding to her anatomy which marks the superior civilization of Great Britain and its colonial dependencies. "Carry you," suggested Bartley. "I dare say you'd be very sure-footed; but I'd quite enough of donkeys in the hills at home." Bartley roared with the resolution of a man who will enjoy a joke at his own expense.
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